Transition
by emporer hobbes
Summary: Prussia is making a transition, but needs approval. Summary fail. WARNING- OC, dead spouses, the like.
1. Chapter 1

**This was written for just the fun of it. If it sucks, I apologize halfheartedly, but I was feeling obligated to make something, and I hear that fluff is perennially appreciated. That, and my Parody-Well be dry. Yargh. **

_Once Upon a Time._

Next to the phrase were a thousand ancient scribbles in ink and a dirty gray indentation where generations of pencils had left their mark. You could still see remnants of what the instruments had tried to create before "becoming one" with ink and eraser: A knight, a princess, a lady knight among others had tried to make their pilgrimage from their creator's rough, soldier mind to paper. But there had always been roadblocks. After all, a soldier's mind was cut out to achieve outward greatness, visible glory, never soft, personal expression. Not that he wasn't capable of that, he just didn't have the time.

Now there was nothing but time.

He hadn't caused a scene when they told him. Nothing was broken when he was dissolved, no fuss when he learned he didn't exist. Just a curt nod before walking out the open door at a reasonable pace. No one followed him when he walked (yes, walked) all the way to what had once been his house, and then, well past six o'clock, sat on the ground of what had once been a chicken yard (now there was just grass and a rotting shack; The gruesome remains of what had once been a coop). He had been completely alone, and no one called or came for him.

At first, he didn't know why he had taken the book and pen from the house, but when he sat, he had begun to write. It had all been a fairy tale, so it would be appropriate to begin as such. Then what? The pauper, the knight, the dragon had met a princess, a fey, a chicken girl, a lady knight, and everything had fallen apart.

Now, all this time later, the extinct country sat in the same spot, with the same notebook and a mechanical pencil, completely alone except for the lady just sitting in the corner of his mind's eye.

"You're not still trying to write that, are you?"

"Someone's got to, and I'd rather have it be done by me than by one of West's historians."

"I think they do a fine job…"

'But they'd take all the awesome out of us. If I let them have their way, we'd be no better than those paintings or jewels that Rod and Francis keep tucked away."

"Nothing wrong there. They're kept in fine condition."

"Words are a better preservative for actions."

In his mind's ear, she laughs. He smiles as he pulls out his dogtags: two metal rectangles with his name, two small gold rings, and an oval shaped locket. Inside that is the face of the voice- a portrait of a madonna's face framed with cropped hair. Capping her shoulders is a blue dress, the same hue as her eyes.

This is the face of Hilda Fleischer.

The March of Brandenburg.

_My wife._

Before, the thought would send either tears to his eyes or a sad smile to his lips. Either way, his body would be weighed with ennui. Now, the thought left him empty.

"Hilda, we need to talk."

There was immediate quiet. Not silence, never silence with her, but a full, warm quiet that was always his duty to fill.

"I know you said you wanted me to move on, and I told you I wouldn't, but…"

"Have you changed your mind?"

A steady inhale of breath.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. But I want your blessing."

A pause, then a giggle.

"A _blessing?_ That's never stopped you before!"

"I know, I know. But I never wanted _their_ blessing. They can go fuck themselves as far as I'm concerned. But this would affect you the most, so I want _your_ approval, _your_ blessing."

The laugh kept ringing in his ears.

"And you'll get it! But you won't until I know who it is."

"That's what's worrying me," he confessed. "You might not approve."

"Why not? You (generally) have good taste…"

He was tempted to tackle her, but to do so would be to wrestle with the air.

"Now, dear, tell me who it is."

"… His name's Matthew."

"Pardon me, but I thought I heard you say 'he'."

"Matthew. Yeah."

Her airy laugh again.

As he stared at the page in his lap, face a brilliant pink, he could almost feel her head on his shoulder.

"Did you honestly think I'd be angry? With all the men around, it was practically inevitable! Matthew, hm? I don't think it rings any bells…"

"Of course it wouldn't. He's young, and not very noticeable."

"Haha! My Gilbert and a wallflower?"

"He's not a wallflower! He's not boring, he's just… well, in comparison to everyone else, he's just…"

"… a wallflower?"

"FOR THE LOVE HILDA HE IS NOT A DAMN… _GRRR!_"

In his frustration, he flung himself backwards onto the grass. He could sense her laying beside him, still giggling.

"Darling? I don't think you're doing him justice."

A dry laugh. "Thanks for pointing it out."

"Tell you what: there's another one of those ridiculous meeting coming up tomorrow, jawhol?"

"Jawhol."

"I'll come along and judge him myself. How will that be?"

Closing his eyes, he smiles.

"Suits me fine."

"It's getting dark, and if I recall properly, West made a curfew for you."

"_Gott,_" he groans, "He's the incarnation of you, I swear…"

"Better hope not! If he is, you know very well what you'll get for this…"

Covering his humor with mock terror, Prussia leapt up, and ran to the car, while in his mind, Brandenburg smiled and waved.

… **yeah. Prussia was married. Go figure. Seriously, if you doubt it, look it up: March of Brandenburg. In my opinion, basically, she was the brains of the outfit. If Gilbert is being remarkably OOC, I apologize. I know I'd be a dork if I was talking to my dead spouse.**


	2. Chapter 2

The car ride had been more tedious than was certainly legal in any city, any nation, or any continent. Partially because Feliciano had slept the entire trip, but mostly because of Gilbert's silence. Gilbert was _never_ silent. He could pull off the occasional _relative_ quiet, which was his normal volume lowered by half a decibel, but that only happened when he made a conscious effort. Otherwise, he slept-talked, snored, sang along to his i-pod, mumbled, whistled, hummed, tapped, etc., etc. He was only silent when rendered unconscious or absolutely overwhelmed by something. The former occurred at least twice over the course of these meetings (courtesy of Erszebet's "little friend"), the latter only once as far as Ludwig could recall—1932, the dissolution of Prussia.

Currently, the self-proclaimed "Condensation of Pure Awesome" was sitting in the back of the Volkswagon, his forehead pressed against the glass. The only indication that he was alive were his hands: one lightly fiddling with his dogtags, the other balled into a loose fist, bouncing on his knees for two beats before either retaining its shape, vaguely unfolding, or bending out his index and pointer finger.

_"Rock, paper, scissors…"_

_ "Ha! Rock trumps paper, ja?"_

_ "I don't think you fully understand the meaning of this game…"_

Ludwig had gotten so used to shis beloved/s Feliciano's activity, that he found he was getting bored with this peace. So desperate was he, that he nearly struck up a conversation with his brother, but stopped when he saw the buds tucked into his ears.

_"I understand that I am kicking your ass thoroughly. Now man up and play me again."_

_ "Rock, paper, scissors… what the hell is that?"_

_ "This, darling, is a tank, and I believe that it trumps everything."_

Say you're a German. You've been driving for nearly three hours with an Italian next to you and a Prussian behind you. Normally, you this is hell, which you have always believed is very noisy. Now you know it is silent. Always.

_"A TANK?"_

_ "Ja, it trumps everything…"_

_ "Nein! Hilda, we don't use tanks in this game! Tanks don't trump everything!"_

_ "Fine, fine…"_

_ "That's what Holy Hand-grenades do."_

Now, you are nearing that building that you have called "Hell" for so long, but now it is heaven. And heaven is wonderful. It is noisy, messy, and people will _talk_ to you. They will ask silly questions, insult you, etc., etc. And now you're there, and so glad you murmur a prayer and bring your head to the wheel, hit the horn, and make both Prussian and Italian bounce back into consciousness, cursing in their respective languages.

* * *

It was highly probable that Gilbert's presence had been acknowledged by one of the hundreds of Nations present in the hotel ballroom. Normally, he'd jump at such recognition, gloating and singing his praises, but not today. Today, his mind was set to the predatory state he discovered during his time with Russia—a state when all that is perceivable to the senses is every trait associated with the target. Granted, at the time, the target at the time was to be avoided at all costs. Now, he was tracking; tracking the scent of maple, the whisper-thin voice, the slightest glimpse of red sweater, gold hair…

"Mr. Prussia? Why are you smelling the wall?"

And in the eloquent words of sweet poetry, he responded, "Um."

Matt. Looking at him. Looking up, sweet confusion dominating his expression.

"Um."

_I missed you. I was looking for you. I wanted to see you._

"… It's awesome. That's why."

Awkward shuffling of the feet. Clearing of the throat. The usual.

As Matt quickly made his way to his seat, Brandenburg whispered, "Is that him?"

"Mm-hm."

An excited squeal.

""Gilbert, he's DARLING!"

For the next thirty minutes, while he pretended to read a MAD magazine, she hovered the boy sitting at the place designated for "Canada", cooing over every detail, at how he was so very much like a "little girl"—his hands, his slim little wrists, his slightly upturned little nose, squealing with delight over his large violet eyes, his small ears, his softly waved hair, and off-flying curl. Whenever Gilbert would roll his eyes, she'd shoot back saying, "As if you're not agreeing with me!"

Truth be told, she was right. Gilbert felt his mouth quirk every time Matt would look behind himself or scan the room, utterly perplexed, certain he was being examined by someone.

When Hilda finally returned to him, giggling in girlish glee, he asked under his breath, "I take it we have your blessing?"

"You've got my blessing to know him. BUT."

_Verdammt_, there was _always _a BUT.

"… I'm not giving my blessing for a relationship. I don't even know if there can even be one."

Gilbert felt sick.

"BUT."

Thank God for the BUT.

"… He does seem rather down. Do something."

"'Something'?"

"Don't make me spell it out for you. Something that will make him laugh."

"Like what?"

"Oh, _come on_! Are you telling me that you're not awesome enough to do something as simple as that?"

Verdammt, she knew him well.

As usual, France and England were arguing, shouting into one another's faces, their words indistinct. Seizing his chance, Gilbert raised his hand.

"A question from the floor."

In unison, both nations turned and shouted "YEAH?"

Fighting a smirk, he asked, "Exactly how much longer do you two plan on living in sweet DE-NIIII-AL~?"

There was a split second of silence before the chaos.

England lunged across the table, red-faced and claws ready, but was restrained by France (who was engaged in his current occupation with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm). Eastern Europe was shouting at him, Western Europe was trying to bring back order, Asia and the Americas was arguing amongst themselves for no particular reason, Southern Europe was napping, the Nordics were laughing so hard they had to clutch the table-top, and Africa was quietly enjoying the scene.

Red-faced and grim, Ludwig proceeded to drag out his brother by the collar.

Yet in all the discord (and the fabric digging into his neck), Gilbert was beaming, because in the back of the room, Matt was laughing harder than all the Nordics combined.

**Hello, everyone. I was hoping maybe someone could do me a favor. You see, I was trying to cross out a line of text, Put a dash through it, you know? I've seen it done. Could some kind soul maybe private message me directions? Have a very G.R.O.S.S day!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Before we begin, I'd like to say "Thank you" to all the people who have reviewed and said such great things about the previous 2 chapters. I just saw what day it was today, and thought that it was about time to post up a new baby. I've been working on this for a little while, and just decided to put it up. I hope that people like this all right. All the same, don't expect a lot of great things from this one…**

The glow of victory was diminished after 15 minutes alone in the hallway. The first few minutes after Ludwig had shut the door on him had been spent in a sort of victory dance, which Hilda called "War-Dance-Of-The-Drowning-Victim-Of-The-Shark-Attack". Once that wore him out, he slumped against the wall, savoring the image of Matt weeping in laughter, whilst laughing himself into a state of victorious euphoria.

Finally, he found he was bored, a little tired, and somewhat lonely.

Never one to sit in silence, his attention turned to Hilda.

"Now what?"

"We DON'T go back in. Nothing would annoy Ludwig more."

"Is that supposed to stop me?"

"It won't, will it… Well, how about the image of England tearing you limb by limb, in from of your Matt?"

"…"

"I think there's a library in the lobby. Go do some reading before lunch."

The library had a pool table, and Gilbert found himself remarkably tempted, but recalled that when Hilda said, "Read a book", she meant, "Hide yourself before they kill you, and keep quiet or I'll join them."

There was a reason he stopped going to these lobby libraries—Every one of them had the same books. Atlases, standard classics, old newspapers, ladies romances, and pubescent adventure novels from the 50's.

He could've protested this to her, but a new title caught his attention: "Poe Must Die".

Wow. THAT was new.

He picked up the paperback from the table where it lay, and let himself fall into an armchair, his back against one arm and a leg draped over the other.

He noticed a small piece of plastic sticking out between two pages. Carefully opening to it, he saw it was a wrapper to a piece of maple candy.

Maple.

For a moment, he wondered if…

_Nah._

Nonetheless, he considered the possibility that…

_Nein_.

All the same, he placed the wrapper back and turned back to the first page.

The book was deliciously pulpy, but was justifiable on account of the use of a great literary figure, even is said hero was solving a murder mystery that revolved around resurrecting devils, gruesome ritualistic killings, and a healthy dose of child prostitution.

He came to the point where the serial killer was discussing his nefarious scheme with the femme fatale, while he lounged in a bathtub and she manicured his nails adoringly and…

_Someone was standing right behind him directly over his head_

When his mind was his own again, Gilbert found he was holding a handful of red sweater in his fist and staring right into wide and terrified violet, amplified behind a pair of glasses.

_Matt?_

"Mr. Prussia…?"

Matt took a few faltering steps backwards as he was released.

_"Dumpkoff."_

_ "Don't remind me, Hilda."_

"Mr. Prussia, is everything all right?"

"Huh…? Oh, yeah, yeah. I'm good."

An awkward pause. Like always.

"Hey, Canada, I'm sorry about that…"

"Hey, no worries! I know, I don't like people hovering over me, either… sorry…"

"_Pffft, _no worries."

Matt was pinking, a smile lightly etching his face, but still buried in uncertainty.

"Canada?"

"Eh?"

Gilbert smiled at the phrase, at Matt's visual expression betraying the desire to hit himself.

"Don't worry about it. You're awesome."

A light shrug and a quiet laugh.

" I see you've found it… the book."

"Huh? Oh, 'Poe Must Die'? Yeah, I was getting started on it."

"'Getting started'? You're over a hundred pages into it!"

"Really?" Sure enough, Gilbert saw '106' labeled the top of the page.

"Huh. To get that far in one sitting… Matt, I keep telling you how awesome I am, and you just never believe me…"

"Less power to me then."

"… Well, now here you go. Look at that, kid: one-hundred-and-six awesome pages in one sitting. If that's not a pure condensation of awesome, you tell me what is."

Matt now grinned mischievously, and showed him the page the wrapper had been stuck in—191.

"One morning. All that. In one sitting."

"… Bite me."

Still chuckling, Matt sat himself across from Gilbert as he collapsed dramatically onto the chair.

_Hilda?... HILDA. Stop Ogling him and help me out here._

_ "Hm…? With what?"_

_ What do I do now?_

_ "Keep the ball rolling, obviously."_

_ With what?_

_ "Improvise! You've done it before, you can do it again. I should know."_

"Hey, Canada."

"Mr. Prussia?"

" How long have we known each other?"

"We don't technically 'know' one another. We've been acquainted for one year and seven months, if that's what you're asking."

Canada smiles as he says it, but as soon as the words leave him, Gilbert can read the dawning mortification on his face.

"Oh, geez… I'm sorry about that…"

"Wow, kid. That hurt."

Of course, Gilbert was lying. But Matt just kept falling all over himself apologizing, and it was so damn funny and sweet that Gilbert just wanted to be sadistic for once, until he couldn't take it anymore.

"_You're just so mean, aren't you." _

_ Like you aren't enjoying this, too._

_ "… Damn you. When are you going to pounce?"_

_ Eh?_

_ "… Pft. You know what I mean. He's in a very compromising position right now. Ask him for coffee or something."_

_ That's mean. I like it. What do I say?_

_ "I'm not your wordsmith."_

_ Erm…. How's 'I'm feeling forgiving, so if you buy me a drink we'll put it past us'?_

_ "Go on…"_

_ What do you mean, 'Go on'?_

_ "He buys you the drink. Then what?_

_ Um… I have a free drink?_

_ "Mrgh. How about you decide to pay in the end? That should charm him."_

_ But I don't have my wallet. Luddy confiscated it after the spaetzle incident._

_ "Oooh, yeah. Heh, that was great. Umm, back to the drawing board then. How's about…"_

"Look, Mr…. Dammit, _Prussia_, if I buy you lunch can we put this behind us? I know there's a really good gyro stand, really cheap, just across the street…"

…

Well, THAT was unexpected.

_What do I say?_

_ "Uh… Uh… you're on your own, here."_

And if you ask, Gilbert just said "okay" like a regular human (ish) being, he did NOT almost giggle as he said it. Hilda will always say different, Matt too, but Gilbert knows what happens.

** Crap ending is crap. Hey, I post to get better at what I do, so if anyone has ANY ideas at all, any thoughts on how to revise this, let me know via review or message. HELP ME TO HELP YOU, and we'll all float on. A'ight? **


	4. Chapter 4

** Well. It took me long enough, but here you go: I give you… GYRO QUEST. **

**And I'm finally clearing up my act—when you see italics with parentheses, that's Gilbert talking to himself. Plain italics are Hilda. Cheers.**

_"Oompa Loompa doopity d'awesome…"_

"Hey, I forgot to ask—do you even like gyros?"

_"Hanging out with Matt is totally awesome…"_

"Prussia? Did you hear me?"

_"I'm getting gyros, la la la la… what's a gyro?"_

"Canada, what's a gyro?"

"They're… hm. Kind of like… Greek tacos? I dunno."

"Spicy meat in a crunchy shell soaked in ouzo and sprinkled with cat hair? Yum-yum-eat-'em-up."

_"Scheisse, Scheisse, why did I say that so fast?"_

Gilbert could joke, but he felt like any minute he would vomit. Not from the image of a hairy, ouzo-marinated taco, but rather from the fact that this was the _first time_ he'd ever been alone with Matt and he'd never had a gyro before and OH SCHEISSE what if he got food poisoning in front of him—

"—lamb, you should be okay."

"… What did you just call me, Canada?"

"Did you hear me at all?" Matt asked, without any indignation. Gilbert felt remarkably sheepish, but he refused to admit his brain was bitch-slapping him quite thoroughly at the moment.

_Libeling, you can lie a little._

_ "But that would be ass-ish."_

_ ... Seriously? Quick, improvise._

"… Whoa, sorry, kid, I couldn't hear you. You just speak so quiet, and, you know, I have difficulty registering all earthly sounds, what not with all the awesome around me."

"Huh. That so?" Matt's face was so easy to read. An amusing thought grew in his pupils and tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So what you're telling me is that you can hear the divine? I'll call the L.D.S."

"I wouldn't say 'the divine,' per-se."

"Oh-HO, the nefarious, then?"

"The better to discourse with my dark minions. "

Matt's eyes widened in mock wonder, with an insincere low whistle. "What do they say now?"

Thoughtfully, Gilbert pursed his lips and lifted his eyes downwards before saying, "They want to know what the hell a gyro is because they are _not_ about to scarf down ouzo-marinated cat fur."

_"That's not what it is!" _Matt wailed, flailing momentarily in mock frustration.

_"Then what in the hell is it?"_ Gilbert mimicked.

Matt's face was a mask of horror and insult, but the laughing sparkle in his eyes was still evident—_"Oh, Gott im himmel, I'm using 'sparkle,' I _am_ gay."_

"Alright, we're going to try this once more: Gilbert, do you like mutton?"

"Sheep meat? Meh, you develop a taste for it, which I have."

"How about fried vegetables? Like those?"

"Like stir-fry? Sure."

"Do you like epic, outlandish, ridonkulous, beast-ness in a pita?"

"Kid, I thought it was already established that I was a total narcissist. And what in the hell is a pita?"

An eyebrow shot up. "You've never had a pita? And you're how old?"

_"Whoa! I'm bantering with Matt!"_

Before Matt could even consider apologizing, Gilbert asked where this place was, anyway.

Matt was 99.98% certain he last saw it in this park… in an area…

Eight minutes of scavenging the park later, Gilbert was no closer to finding out what a pita was than when they had started. Not that he cared; it was Matt he was worried about. Already he could feel Matt's previous air of ease change becoming choked with an oncoming onslaught of apolo—

()

Matt had been trying to find the best way to apologize for this pointless waffling about. He was fairly certain that Gilbert had more excuse to be contemplating the same subject than him. That was only his assumption, but Matt had a vague idea that going stock still before grabbing your escort's shoulder with a vice-like grip, slowly turning your face like a hunted animal ready to unleash hell if necessary, then performing a complete about-face, releasing said escort's shoulder and running in the opposite direction with a joyful cry of "problem solved!" probably required an apology of some sort… right?

A stout, middle-aged man who had been examining his smart-phone only yards away was suddenly accosted by an enthusiastic, five-foot-nine, (possibly) albinistic, (definitely) loony, hundred-fifty-odd-pound-pure-muscle of pure Prussian awesome. Even from his distance, Matt could see the accost-ee going into a genuine state of panic, and … was that a stopwatch in Gilbert's hand?

Matt ran to the scene, hearing the man stammering the address of the theater district, and that there might be one in the station… that was all.

Gilbert stopped the watch, clapped the man on the shoulder, advised him to keep away from foreign girls, and crisply walked off, pulling Matt along by his hood.

"Gilbert?"

"Eh?"

"Firstly, that was funny the first thirty chagillion times I heard it. Secondly, what was that all about?"

"What, the grilling? Only everything of significant importance we'll need in succeeding in our quest. Got a car?"

"'Quest'?"

"We have our four potential gyro stand locations—one at the Century Park-"

"Millennium."

"Can't be that old. One on the bridge, one by the theater district, and the station. That your car? The jalopy?"

"It's a Mari- er, Malibu."

"Gonna let me drive?"

"_Hell_ no."

Hey, you have an 'Ambleman' keychain! Awesome!"

"_How did you get my keys?"_

"Mysterious ways and all that. I'll let you work the radio."

**Millennium Park**

Two towers stood on either side of a cement square, filled to spilling with urchins, shrieking and soaking everyone in sight with the water pouring and pooling from the columns.

Across from the chaos stood a gyro stand. Gilbert turned to Matt.

"Somehow this feels really symbolic, y'know?"

"Yeah."

"That the stand over there?"

"Nope."

"Symbolism's gone. Let's go."

"Sure. Where'd you say the oth—what, pray tell, are you up to now?"

Gilbert was hastily pulling off his shoes, socks, and rolling up his jeans, only asking, "You come to this town often?"

"Periodically, yeah. Never to this place, though."

"Awesome. Now removeth thine footwear and follow me."

Bewildered, Matt obeyed, and, after he had locked their shoes and socks in the car, found himself being dragged to the concrete and water and screams backwards by his hood.

He saw the towers were screens, enlarged faces blinking and blank of expression glowing underneath the aqueous curtain. He stood, mesmerized, until a miniscule stream of water stung on the side of his nose. He turned to find that Gilbert was laughing at him, holding a toddler boy with an orca squirt-toy.

A devious grin spread over Matt's face as he spoke to the boy in rapid French. As Gilbert set the boy down, he hesitantly began to ask what the funny-looking lady had told him, only to have orca-water sprayed in his face.

There was not much time to gloat, because the faces on the pillars formed an "O" and a heavy stream of water gushed forth, showering Matt's head. With an involuntary shriek, he tried to step away, only to be held in place by a swarm of urchins clapping onto his legs. So he settled for laughing, and spreading out his arms, looking for all the world like a deluged, hysterical, red…

"… _angel…"_

Gilbert's reverie was broken when the object of said reverie flung his soaked jacket on the other's pale head, with a cry of "Remember Tim Horton's!"

The surrounding urchins chose their champions and presented them with weapons. Matt chose a water pistol from a small, dark-haired girl named Margot, while Gilbert chose a rubber ducky from a boy who advised him to "use Steve-O well."

"For Margot!"

"For Steve-O!"

And that was how the battle began.

The two combatants never touched one another, but there was enough ninja-esque swirling and cries of "Argh!" and "Blarg!" to satisfy the audience's bloodthirsty-ness.

It finally ended when the mouths on the towers spewed water again, and Margot's champion found his arms pinned behind his back by Steve-O's champion, holding him under the air-borne deluge.

Amidst cheers, hands were shaken, weapons returned, and tokens were given to the victors—to Margot's, a single earring (when he protested, she insisted that these were her water-earrings, anyway), and to Steve-O's, ownership of Steve-O's twin brother ("It's okay, they can communicate telethapically, so they won't be lonely").

En route to the car, Gilbert had to ask how Canada had known that little orca-punk spoke French?

"Easy. His name's Henri Petit, from Montreal. His first language is French."

"Classily done."

"Well, you know, I DID double major in 'Sneaky Bastardry' and 'Heinous BAMF-ery Most Foul.'"

Gilbert laughed with Canada, but the glint in his eye, amplified by his glasses, worried him enough to let Canada drive to the next stop.

**Bridge on the Chicago River**

Unfortunately, this wasn't the right stand either, but Gilbert insisted they chill on the bridge before continuing on their "quest," as he called it, in spite of Matt's offer to buy a gyro from this stand and go back to the meeting.

There was an accordionist on the bridge, so as they leaned against the railing, Gilbert sang loudly along to the tunes he knew, which were surprisingly numerous—Lady of Spain, Paris in the springtime, Heiraten…

Several times, he pestered Canada to sing with him. Several times, Canada insisted he couldn't sing.

"Everyone can _sing…_"

"Unlike some, I don't like the sound of my own voice."

But when the accordion played a song he didn't recognize, Gilbert pouted only a moment before waltzing with the air. Matt laughed at him for a moment before he found his wrist grabbed and his body being circled around in the clumsy three-step. He sputtered indignantly for a moment before taking lead, himself, and much to the enjoyment of the small crowd gathering.

After concluding with a dramatic dip, Gilbert declared that this was now "their song" with a coquettish fluttering of his eyelashes.

Considerable funds were given to the accordion player, and Matt dropped him a $50 bill, insisting that he'd feel like crap if he didn't take care of his brother's own.

**Theater District**

Unlike Matt, Gilbert hadn't seen many American musicals.

"There are just some things," he explained to the Northern Giant, "that don't translate very well into German."

"Really? What song wouldn't go into German?"

"Oh, not so much of the _songs,_ more of the _ideas._"

Matt grinned. "What kind of…" (Here he paused to read a marquee sign) "'…Uplifting, rock-the –house, will have you dancing in the aisles' masterwork wouldn't translate into German?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"I believe you, I do, but I'm seriously curious. What wouldn't?"

"'The Producers.'"

"_Oh."_

Gilbert could smell an apology wafting over their heads, so he briskly asked about 'Magical Whirligigs of sight, sound, and wonder' that wouldn't translate well into Canadian culture.

"Meh. We're pretty cool with most stuff."

"Even Jukebox musicals?"

"Sure. Well, _I_ am, anyway."

"…_Mamma Mia, here I go again…"_

_ "Psssh."_

"Guilty pleasure?"

_"Very."_

"If it's any consolation, mine's 'Wicked.'"

In response, Matt cheekily whistled "What is this Feeling?" which earned him a light kick to the backs of his knees and the title of "Stinker."

"So, Canada, if there's this 'Great American Musical,' is there a 'Great Canadian' one?"

"Sure, we make musicals. They're a good time. Only one made it to Broadway, though."

"Oh? Which one?"

"'The Drowsy Chaperone.'"

Gilbert racked his brain unsuccessfully for any association with a show of that name, until finally asking for a plotline.

"A guy who's listening to this record of a musical from the 20's, and the audience sees it come to life in his apartment."

"And what's the show about?"

Matt shrugged. "A celebrity wedding. Comedy of Errors. Pretty ridiculous, nothing complex. It's pretty much all on the CD."

"And do you have it?"

Matt sheepishly nodded.

"Why's the Chaperone drowsy?"

"Well, see, she's—"

"WAIT, Inspiration has struck me!" Gilbert declared, halting in his tracks and throwing what he hoped would be interpreted as a comradely arm about Matt's shoulders. "When we find this damned elusive gyro stand, we shall partake in the fruits of our labors whilst listening to this CD, and thus many questions shall be answered, and lo, it will be a party."

"Pssh. I didn't have you pegged for a Church-Lady type. Just as long as you don't start quoting 'Peanuts…'"

"'And there were in the same country shepherds…'"

"Oh, _Gawd…_"

"Be afraid. Be sore afraid."

**Union Station**

"That's the one?"

Matt gestured to his ear. Gilbert cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "IS THAT IT?"

Matt grinned and nodded before stepping down from his the bench where he stood to push his way through the river of bodies back to the stairs where Gilbert waited. The stand had been woefully far away and even from the top of the stairs the sign could not be read. The bench was the only elevated area close enough to get an accurate view from above the swarm.

From his perch, Gilbert could see that for every person moving from the train in business attire, there were two standing around in dress clothes, not making any sign to hurry. Fortunately, this meant Matt returned quickly and relatively untrampled. He was grinning when he gained the top of the stairs.

"What's going on down there? Is it that group that pulls weird stunts in subways and shit?"

"It's a wedding party."

_"Oh."_

"Gilbert, if you want, we can hurry and grab our gyros and go—"

"Um."

"Yeah?"

"If it's cool… hurm."

Matt didn't say a word. Didn't urge him, kept a neutral face. Just like Gilbert knew he would.

"If it's cool, I'd. Um. Like to stay and… _hrrrrm._"

_"I wanna watch. Maybe I'll feel it this time."_

Matt only shrugged. "'Kay."

Just like Gilbert knew he would.


	5. Chapter 5

**You know what? Screw work. I'm typing this and eating a lemon. **

… **Oh, geez, I mean a LITERAL lemon. Not the… I just made it worse. Just read the goshdarn thing.**

They waited thirty minutes on the stairs while barriers and chairs were set up and crowds were herded around them. Two hefty security guards approached the two early on to shoo them out, but Matt flashed his ID. Gilbert could not prove who he had been, but his dogtags could confirm he was at least a vet of some war with a lofty-enough rank which entitled him to bum around on a Union Station staircase with Canada Himself, and, most importantly, meant he could explode with a PTSD attack if further provoked.

As he pulled his dogtags out from under his shirt and lifted them to the security, the chain broke. He made a sudden desperate move to catch the little golden trinkets, but Matt was ahead of him, gathering them swiftly and carefully, probably prompted by the obvious panic Gilbert displayed.

Of course, the security insisted that it was cool, man. Canada's good people, and he'd whoop Gilbert's ass if he tried any dumb shit with him. Just kidding, but for real, man.

Gilbert restrung the dogtags onto his chain as the guards left them. Matt took the opportunity to study the little golden trio in his hand—two rings, both gold, one's circumference larger than the others. The larger one was set with a jetstone, the smaller with a ruby. A gold locket, holding a miniature portrait of a young woman dressed in blue. He had never thought Gilbert would be a person to carry a Virgin Mary miniature, but this didn't look like any Virgin Mary he'd ever seen. The face was more of a heart shape than an oval, the neck and collarbone was exposed, and the hair was flaxen and cropped to the jaw.

"Cute, isn't she."

Matt's head shot up. Gilbert's palm was extended, expecting the rings and icon. He was looking at the crowd, smiling at something far away. Matt sheepishly dropped them into the waiting hand, and Gilbert held up the image like an older boy explaining an arrowhead to a younger one.

"This is my girl, Hilda. Brandenburg."

"Hilda Brandenburg?"

"No. _Brandenburg_ first. _Hilda_ was her civilian name."

"What happened to her?"

"She married me."

He said it as a joke, but somehow those four syllables landed on the day's lightheartedness like a boulder.

He held up the rings next. "Mine," he said of the larger jet one, "hers" of the smaller ruby ring. Once strung again, he fixed the chain around his neck, eyes lost in the crowd.

"She was very beautiful," Matt finally said.

"The picture is, yes," added Gilbert, pleasantly. "We laughed when we saw it."

"What's wrong with it?"

"He chin was rounder, and the cheeks weren't so soft. She had more gold in her complexion, not so fair and rosy. And her lower lip stuck out, she didn't have this cupid-bow mouth. Her nose was larger, with a jump, like yours. Her hair is flaxen here, but it was really more like wheat. They got her little ears right, though, and her eyes. Her eyes are perfect—the shape, and the color. That's our blue, you know. Prussian blue."

"I always thought Prussian blue was cornflower blue."

"There's a tint of green in Prussian. That's from her."

Matt didn't look at him for a while. Looking at his trouser's hem, he asked:

"If this is such a poor likeness of her, why keep it?"

He was frightened he had killed everything that had happened today when Gilbert didn't respond immediately and pursed his lips. Finally, he heard a slow response -"If I know what's wrong with it, the truth will stay fresh."

In that moment, Gilbert seemed so incredibly old and wise and sad and Matt felt so immature and distant so very embarrassingly _green._

_ "And he has no idea how very wonderful he is…"_

"Also," Gilbert added, "This is the only portrait of her in the world."

They sat in timid silence once more for roughly forty-five seconds before Gilbert genially turned to the other to say, "Why don't you ask about her? It's not a bother to me."

Matt shrugged the awkwardness of his shoulders. "How did you meet?"

Gilbert settled back as if he was in an armchair, clearly in a yarn-spinning mood. "She was in the order with me, and when that was over, she lived nearby. I always knew of her, but didn't begin speaking to her until a little later.

"She was always a nice girl. Spoke moderately, very intelligent, finer strategist than soldier. We used to tease her, called her 'Sandy…'"

"Goody-two-shoes?"

"'Sandbox of the Holy Roman Empire.' Couldn't grow a damned thing there."

"When did you start talking to her?"

Here Gilbert grinned. "Out hunting."

"Together? Or was she hurt?"

"No, no, she was fine. See, it was her damned bird..."

**EARLY 1600's at an Ungodly hour of the Morning**

_ It was mid-spring, the air dove gray. Prussia had rode out unaccompanied on Gerhild in search of deer, with a quiver and bow. For these early morning hunts, he preferred these tools for stealth purposes. _

_ His favorite deer spot was quite far-off, almost touching his neighbor, Brandenburg's lands—a small creek, thick firs on each side. He settled behind his usual spot, strung his bow, took a swig of the cider he'd brought along to keep off the cold, and waited. Waiting was stupid._

_ In almost no time, there was a rustle across the creek. In a practiced motion, he whipped an arrow out from the quiver and watched, taut with expectations, feeling so young agai—was that a chicken?_

_ Fucking _shit,_ shitting _fuck_, all that awesome epic for a damned chicken—where the hell did it even _come_ from?_

_ Somewhere off, there was another rustle and a series of soft clucks._

_ "Jesus H. Christ," he growled, wading across the creek, "I've heard of free range, but this is just damned -you can keep your feathered little ass right there you little inbred… damn!"_

_ The chicken had responded to the distant clucks by echoing them and running into the woods. So, with all thoughts of the deer gone, Prussia gave chase, cursing long and loud, until the hen leaped into the … air? No, only into Brandenburg's arms. _

_ Brandenburg?_

_ Yes, it _was_ Brandenburg, Sandy, standing in the gray morning mist. She must have been in a hurry when she left home, because her white linen nightgown shone brightly beneath her green hunting cloak and her hair hung loose, past her shoulders. It would have been a very romantic picture if she wasn't wearing her heavy, ill-fitting boots and holding a fat white hen and … well, if it just wasn't _Sandy_._

_ "That one yours, Sandy?"_

_ Nod._

_ "I think I heard another one around here."_

_ "No, that was me. Guten tag, Herr Prussia."_

_ He decided to follow her. "Why're you up so early?"_

_ "The little one ran."_

_ "So that's it? Sentimental attatchment?"_

_ "She ran because the coop was blown down. There was a storm last night…"_

_ "Yes, I heard it. Is your horse nearby?"_

_ Head shake._

_ "So you walked all the way here?"_

_ "She's frightened of Kuno, and vice-verce."_

_ "How far away do you live? I forget."_

_ "Not far."_

_ "Gerhild's not far either. I'll give you a ride."_

_ She ignored him. Being ignored was stupid._

_ He grabbed her shoulder. "It's faster."_

_ She seemed to consider it, then turned and walked past him. He watched curiously before she turned to give an insistent head tilt._

_ She rode in front of him, never saying a word unless it was to answer a question or give directions. Otherwise, she occasionally clucked to the hen softly._

_ Prussia only attempted casual conversation once: "Have you named that one?"_

_ "No. It's a bad idea, getting attatched to food."_

_ She began to doze against his chest a little while later, so he reached in front of her to hold the chicken with one hand while guiding Gerhild's reins with the other. It would have been a very charming picture if this wasn't Prussia and this wasn't Sandy._

_ He hadn't seen her house in a long time, but was certain that it didn't have a tree in the roof or a demolished barnyard. She awoke as he gaped, had a brief start with a murmur of "Oh," and leaped down holding the hen, running to the ruin. He watched at a further distance as she counted and held the other hens, gave instruction to the few other laborers, and petted Kuno's large head and hugged his neck._

_ He mentioned it briefly to Poland, who shook his head in wonder when Prussia described the damage. _

_ "That's going to cost her a pretty penny," Poland murmured. "Did you send any assistance?"_

_ "It's nothing her superior can't help with," Prussia shrugged. Poland only smiled and sighed._

_ "Oh, lamb. Look at me," he said, extending his rose-velvet sleeves. "You think my superior funds all this?"_

_ Here Lithuania smirked. "No, I do. But in all seriousness, Prussia. Your superior doesn't fund your hunting trips, your cellars, your private life. This includes your house. The same applies to Brandenburg. She lacks the… well, the necessary provisions for excess that we do. So she's going to be in the proverbial red for a while."_

_ "Lithuania, you didn't see her house. There was a damned tree in her roof. I tell you now, if there's a fucking tree in my fucking roof, I will personally raid the old fart's" (he wasn't fond of this superior)"granny's jewelry case."_

_ He saw her again at Pentecost, a week later. Prussia was hosting the other German states as well as Poland and Lithuania and Holy Rome at his house after the mass, during which no one could stop their eyes from straying to Brandenburg's newly cropped head._

_ Afterwards, Poland finally inquired about the purpose of the change, as subtly as he knew how._

_ "Good God, look at this! Don't misunderstand, you're darling, but… my God, what a surprise! Do tell why?" _

_ "It had gotten impractical."_

_ "Tsk! What a shame. It was such lovely stuff..."_

_ Thankfully, Lithuania finally interjected. "Will you be going back to Prussia's? We'll be having dinner there."_

_ "No. I came with Holy Rome, and planned to leave after mass with him."_

_ Prussia knew he was as dumb as a sack of rocks sometimes, but somehow he was able to catch her subtle flinches. He remembered the damage on her house, and saw that Kuno hadn't been brought out from the stables, and that there were holes in her earlobes where earrings usually were. Come to think of it, the only jewelry she wore was her iron cross…_

_ All those factors somehow allowed him to comprehend that it was heartbreak and shame in her eyes._

_ "She'll ride with me," he insisted, stepping next to her. She looked at him, slightly astonished, but not refusing his arm or the carriage door when it was opened for her._

_ "You're very pretty," he told her quietly as she stepped in. He found he meant it._

_ "Thank you," she responded after a moment, instead of her usual nod. He found she meant it._

_ There was no need to inform Holy Rome of the change in plans. Poland would chatter enough about the sensation, eventually even Ottoman Empire would get wind of it. So Prussia followed her into the carriage, and spoke with her, doing most of the talking while she listened and responded when she deemed necessary, all during the ride, during dinner, the walk on the grounds, supper, the liqueurs after, only stopping to listen to the music whilst dancing._

**Present Time, Just Before the Wedding of Two Strangers**

The procession began, a band playing Mendelssohn's "March of the Faeries" from "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Both watched the ceremony, a Jewish one, the Bride and Groom and Rabbi underneath a canopy. Under the ceremony, the "Nocturne" from the same suite played. When the glass was crushed, the "Wedding March" was played, until the crowd dispersed to find the reception.

Matt rose to get the gyros, leaving Gilbert enraptured with his thoughts. He watched the photographer for a little while as he worked with the couple, who regarded one another adoringly. He wondered briefly how they met, called "Mazel Tov," and returned to Gilbert.

Gilbert returned to the world of the living when he felt a tap on his shoulder and saw what did indeed appear to be a greek taco timidly offered to him, which he received with a smile.

"Thank you," he said, and found he meant it.


	6. Chapter 6

They listened to "The Drowsy Chaperone" in the car as they ate their gyros, parked in Solder Field, watching the world upside down in the giant metallic jelly-bean. Matt eagerly explained the plot as the music went, giving passionate impersonations of the character's movements as he lip-synced, and Gilbert struggled to pay attention to the plot and not said impersonations.

It turned out that gyros were delicious, Matt spoke quickly when he laughed, Canadian musicals were hysterical, Matt snorted when he laughed, Sutton Foster was glorious, and it wasn't as scary as Gilbert thought it would be to talk about Hilda since Matt had asked, and he was a very funny kid, and smart, and nicer than he thought, but not in a cutesy way, and …

… well, you know how it goes.

There was a moment during the introduction to "the Oops Girl" when Matt awkwardly glanced and then away from Gilbert, clearly antsy to ask something. With a sigh, Gilbert paused the CD and turned his gaze expectantly to Canada.

"It's a dumb question," Matt said automatically, reading the pointed look.

"If it'll keep you from looking at me like that, ask away."

"I don't want to offend you."

"Kid, this is me. I am nothing if not offensive. Either I won't be fazed, or I'll get a taste of my own medicine. Shoot."

"… Did you really love her?" _Hilda._ "Like those kids at the wedding. Is that how it was between you two?"

Gilbert settled back, trying not to give any indication as to the flutter in his gut. He answered slowly.

"That's not how it was at the wedding, no, not for me. It was for her, though. I caught up. Eventually. She was the only woman I'll ever love."

Matt tore the wrapper into little triangles. "Um. Maybe I'm not… nuts. I _know_ I'm not at liberty to say this, but… hell, you're a _good guy,_ Gilbert. And girls like you. If you find one you're crazy about, you're not going to have any issues getting her to like you. You know? I mean—"

Gilbert grinned and pinched Matt's nose.

"No, Canada, _listen. _She's the only I'll ever love because I'm _gay._"

"_Oooh,_" said Matt, as realization dawned, his nose still pinched. Gilbert laughed at the nasal drone before freeing him. Then it was his turn to realize something…

"Canada, are things weird now?"

"Wh—no! No, it's fine."

"Good," said Gilbert, truly relieved, reaching to play the CD again. "Glad we got that clea—"

"So am I."

",,,hm?"

"No, nothing forg—aw, hell, me too."

"… what, gay?"

"No, in love with your wife. _Yes,_ I am gay, too. Shit, I just made things weird."

Gilbert only laughed, hugely relieved and ecstatic and newly buoyant. "Are you nuts? This is _fabulous~!_ Now we can, like, talk about Johnny Depp, and have a _Gone With The Wind_ marathon…"

Matt only laughed and punched his arm and turned the CD back on.

Of course, the show had a happy ending, and they both applauded as if they were an actual audience.

The original lunchbreak was supposed to have lasted two hours, but they had been out for five. They were monstrously late getting back, with an hour left of that day's session. Matt was tersely silent (Gilbert knew silences and quiets and all their different colors) on the way back when he had learned of the time, and despite his efforts, his nerves killed his focus on a conversation.

Gilbert resorted to texting his brother.

**gil:** ludo!

**Ludwig Beilschmidt:** Where are you?

**gil: **20 minutes away. canada's freakin out + wants to know what he missed.

**Ludwig Beilschmidt: **He's missed one outlandish proposal, four serious oppositions (3 of which had impossible suggestions), which resulted in 5 petty arguments that grew into 23 major arguments, and we are now in the process of 1 big shouting match.

**gil: **same old-same old?

**Ludwig Beilschmidt: **At some point I'll break out the horn and we'll repeat.

**gil: **lol. sry. can we still sneak canada in?

**Ludwig Beilschmidt:** I can shut them up when he's back. We've been too busy dip-shitting around to see who's there and who's not.

**gil: **he'll be back 4 the last scream-off. thx, bra.

bro. lol. auto-correct.

"Just talked to Lud—my brother," said Gilbert as he snapped his phone shut. No response. Canada's face was plastered to the road, his knuckles whitening on the wheel.

"Canada," he repeated more firmly, producing a small jump from the driver. "Hm? What'd I miss?"

Gilbert had planned on teasing him, but the poorly-hidden panic was changing his mind. He knew he was an asshole, but not a sadist.

"Kid, listen to me," he started, folding his arms to keep from touching Matt (now that they knew where they stood sexuality-wise, it would be wise to establish some distance for propriety's sake—who the flying fuck was talking here? And why did they make sense? Fuck. He'd deal with that later). "You haven't missed anything you haven't seen before eleventy-seventy-and-a-half-trillion times before. Just another brawl that the fraternal unit's gonna shut up once you get there. Got it? You're all good."

Matt did smile at last, and his grip on the wheel loosened, if only a little. Gilbert didn't make him talk for the rest of the drive, and decided to be content with the quiet.

Gilbert walked Matt through the parking lot and lobby, down the hallway, and finally to the front of the door where they paused, listenig to the sounds of battle within.

'Canada?"

"Hm?"

_"You're generous and a good dancer and fun and smart and sincerely nice and_ "Thanks for lunch."

"Anytime. Thanks for coming with." There was more genuineness in that phrase than Gilbert had heard in hour long speeches from the majority of politicians in his day.

_Go on, Gilbert. Your turn._

"Same time tomorrow?" he shot out.

Canada only smiled with a brighter light. "Only if you know where the hell we're going. " He was going to sweep in the room with that, but suddenly Gilbert added "and I wasn't kidding about that _Gone With The Wind_ marathon. We're doing that."

_Oi. We're conversing, not verbally fencing._

Canada just laughed before closing the door. Gilbert rested his brow against the wood and closed his eyes as Hilda spoke.

"Well?"

"He's more than I imagined. "

"…and?"

"What?"

"What do you intend to do about this?"

He thought about this. "I suppose… I guess I'll just play it by ear. Figure it out as it goes. It was stupid telling him about the gay thing, wasn't it?"

"Why do you think that?"

"I thought it would add some dynamic, maybe. But it just unleashed a whole new kind of awkward."

She settled herself next to him. "Do you know what I think?"

"Hm."

"I think your Matt's looking for a friend who's willing to talk about this sort of thing with him. Most would take your comment as an initiative for a one-night stand, but his reaction seems to put him in the more friendly category right now. I'm sorry."

"So I've got to become the gay best friend. Great."

"I'm afraid so, but," she said with a shrug, "it's probably your best chance."

****

True to his word, Germany _did _bring his blowhorn. In his shock, Gilbert slammed his back against the other wall, later dissolving into a fit of cursing, laughter, and snot, but Hilda, who didn't like loud noises, was gone.

**AU: Y'all should listen to "The Drowsy Chaperon" because Sutton Foster is Glorious personified. Also, I do fancy reviews, preferably critique-y ones. Flamers and trolls will be prosecuted. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Casual whistling…**

**Oh. Hello.**

**I suppose you're all a mite curious as to what happened since our intrepid heroes were last seen.**

**Let's see… Gilbert had a successful gyro outing with Matt**

**Who is also gay**

**and evidence suggests that he is not looking for a relationship, rather a friend**

**Which is a scenario deduced by the lovely Hilda Fleischer, i.e Brandenburg.**

**Before I go on, I feel it fair to let you know that YES I am aware that Hima says Brandenburg was a brotherly figure to the German states, wasn't married to Prussia, and will be portrayed as masculine yadda yadda yadda, but there are political cartoons from the time the union was formed, illustrating the event as a WEDDING between the two countries. Yah.**

**So the moral is, 'stand by your headcanon.'**

**Anyways, let's return to our story, this segment taking place**

**THREE DAYS AND FOUR HOURS LATER**

"Alright-y, then, Ladies and Gents, if you will kindly calm your tits and bring your attention to me where it belongs, we'll get to the best part of the night!"

Germany decided to ignore the "tits" comment and finish his _Ayinger_ before turning his attention to U.S.A's table in the center.

Some years ago, this group had gathered and had one successful meeting in which it was decided that every other month, they would gather without their bosses to talk and debate and generally hobnob with their fellow Nation Men and Women. There would be a lottery at the end of these meetings to see who would host the next, and that individual had the responsibility of coordinating the event.

That was the last truly successful meeting they had had, in Germany's opinion. It had been the last time they had gotten something done and it had carried through. Precious little else had occurred afterwards with similar lasting results. Rivalries and romances sometimes came from them, but those were always temporary, he had learned. But it gave them an opportunity to see everyone else without the constraints of formality traditional forums with their bosses required, and the final-evening group dinner at the end was almost always rather magnificent. Tonight's was no exception. Begrudge American food all you will, there is still nothing better or more satisfying than annihilating a platter of juicy, tender, and very saucy ribs, then finding not a napkin, but a beautifully warm washcloth to clean away the mess on your face and hands… he would never let their host know it (he'd never hear the end of it), but this "Carson's" joint might have to become a regular for him when he had to come back to the Chicago area.

Anyway. Waxing rhapsodic about meat aside, it was probably now time to decide the next host.

He turned around in his seat, away from his brother's gruesome dinosaur impersonations, to watch their host dramatically reveal a Bingo Cage. The names of all the countries, except the current host and the host before them, were painted on the little balls within. Whichever name came out was the next host. Before, they used to have a hat to pull names from, then more and more of their fellow Nations had wanted to be involved, and not even the tallest stovepipe hat could hold all the names. Then someone suggested one of these contraptions, and it was agreed that it would be considerably more practical (no one was quite willing to say straight out that it looked hella more fun than an old hat).

While Germany politely listened to their host thank everyone for their cooperation and for coming and whatnot, he heard a stifled chortle behind him. Rolling his eyes, he resolved to not give Gilbert the attention he was clearly seeking.

Then he heard it.

Now, if you ask most of the folks that make up Europe, they'll say that Germany's gotten much better since his younger days. They'll say he's not just smart anymore, he's starting to get wise. He's not any less ambitious or driven than he was in his years of terror, but where and how he's driving his ambitions these days is really quite impressive in one so relatively young. He is no longer a soldier, and his transition to civilian life has been, thus far, smooth and easy.

But there are still little things that make him monstrous, like everyone else he has 'buttons.'

Loud texting is the top offender. It is a bright red button marked "FOR LOVE OF GOD DO NOT TOUCH."

And Gilbert was pushing it. Hell, Gilbert had drumsticks and was tapping out a sassy jazz beat on that particular button.

Germany decided he was going to give Gilbert one minute and one minute only to cease and desist abusing this particular pet peeve before Germany made up his mind to drink the remainder of his brother's bottle and then proceed to cup him throughout the entirety of the next week, and…

There was a sudden flinch of red next to U.S.A. Upon taking a better look, he saw it was Canada, the one who brought Gilbert syrup once. To this day, he still had no clue as to what the context of that random act of kindness was, but ever since, he had been forbidden to stumble over his name on pain of Gilbird Duty.

Canada had just received a text, it seemed, and grinned upon reading it. He immediately looked over at Germany's table, an expression of mock-disgruntlement over obvious amusement. Germany, taken aback, began to mouth an apology, but then heard a familiar hissy giggle behind him and realized that Canada's gaze was not directed at him, anyway. Rather, the Northern Giant was looking at something over his shoulder…

Although he no longer had any doubts at this point, he watched Canada text something of his own, and then heard the buzz on his own table next to Gilbert.

Huh.

Apparently Gilbert and Canada were friends now.

When the flying fuck had that happened?

He watched, perplexed, as the exchange continued between the two, and then quickly awakened from his stupor as the beat began. It was an unspoken rule that the moment the cage began turning, all present would beat out the bassline from Gustav Holst's "Mars" from the planets, quickening the tempo as the moment drew nearer to the 'moment of truth' when the next host would be named, and at the host's signal, complete silence, which U.S.A indicated with a sweeping arm motion.

There was a moment he giggled, before singing in a falsetto "Don't bring me down, Bruce!"

There was wild applause as Australia stood to get his hug and free pint from U.S.A. They had adopted the habit of using their civilian aliases in these public gatherings, and Australia's got him the most crap, a close runner-up being U.S.A—"Alfalfa," "Alfredo," "Alfie," "Freddy," "Big Al," etc. But ever since "Finding Nemo," Australia's name jokes rate had soared through the roof.

At the end of the night, Gilbert was making Germany listen to the sound clips from the song U.S.A had been quoting, and a Monty Python sketch about drunk Australians singing about dead philosophers and booze.

"You've deciphered that smartphone at last," Germany noted. "Good on you."

"Wha- Oh, God no," Gilbert protested, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "It's all Greek to me, still. Nah, Canada was just really cool and sent me these, and I couldn't listen to them in the bar."

"Canada?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "West, I thought I trained you so well. Okay. So we've got this little America-sandwich, right? U.S.A's the meaty-mustardy bits in between, and there are two slices of bread, the top with the sesame seeds being…"

"Gilbert, I know Canada, just…"

Gilbert shot up in his seat. "Hold on, my pants are going off." (It was an old joke between them, referencing to when they got their first mobile phones with vibrate function. Gilbert had briefly thought there was an electric charge in his underwear before realizing it was his phone.)

And as Gilbert texted away happily, occasionally bursting with laughter and reading off what Canada had texted him.

Germany was sure Canada was very witty, don't misunderstand, but how on earth did he reach the point when he went bestowing his apparently golden wit upon Gilbert?

**ONE WEEK LATER**

Germany pushed the door open with his shoulder, his hands being full of briefcase, a jug of milk, and the bag of groceries. He'd had to endure approximately 14 meetings (5 of which were rather trivial matters… well, maybe didn't seem so at the time but when you're old as he is, you have a different idea of what constitutes as trivial), sent off 94 e-mails that were probably going to make someone important feel a touch foolish, endured 73 business-related calls which really could have waited REALLY they could, and then had to exercise all his remaining patience to not physically harm the alarmingly ignorant girl at the register when he bought his groceries.

So he was in a rather delicate state, as you can see. Simply exhausted. Very fragile, liable to shock. And shocked he was when down the steps sauntered his brother, speaking excited, rapid English to the computer. It also was probably not for the best that this was the day that Gilbert had gone a little mad after deciding to clean up the sauce from lunch that had spilled on the floor and in a fit of OCD and boredom decided to go hog-wild and clean the whole damn surface.

So it really wasn't that funny or unexpected when Germany shrieked, slipped, and landed square on his rear.

Still dazed, Germany could only stare with wide eyes as his brother nearly doubled over laughing and turned the computer screen to him, making some comment about Pratfall Hour In The Beilschmidt Household and then something about pastry chefs, and Germany could see Canada's face, fighting a smile, waving, saying a tinny "Guten Abend."

Germany managed a responding wave and some other polite greeting, affecting a sheepish smile that he hoped would cover his confusion. Just when did his brother, his surprisingly Luddite brother whose brief fling with blogging quickly ended after closing his own blog in favor of using Facebook, which ended when he failed to update his status for eight months, who still preferred corded phones and record players, and (for God's sake) mistook the remote for a mobile phone find the courage and patience to use Skype?

As Germany put things away, Gilbert held up the screen to the cabinets, to the food, to the collection of Strange and Unusual Mugs and Steins, showed off the beer, periodically going to Germany for input and questions about the camera or microphone.

Once he had contented himself with the kitchen and moved off to another part of the house to babble about, Germany let his smile drop and his brow furrow as he thought—Since when did Gilbert Skype anyone, let alone Canada?

**TWO WEEKS AFTER THAT**

Ludwig issued three harsh knocks to Gilbert's door. He heard a groan and some muffled apology before the door opened.

"Ludo, this had better be pretty fucking important because there is a sword to steal, a highly temperamental Halfling waiting, and some ogres to annoy."

Germany blinked. "Halfling?"

"It's like a hobbit, but no exactly. Now hurry it up, he gets cranky."

"Is it safe to assume that this… not-hobbit is Canada?"

"Well, his username is 'Levi of Ursalia,' but…"

Germany cut him off. "Gilbert, you're making an effort to use your smartphone. You're accepting Skype. Now you're online gaming."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Splendid observations. Can I go now?"

"No. Gilbert, that smartphone was a gift from Erszebet, and you whined about 'denouncing witchcraft.' Francois and Antonio have offered countless times to teach you how to use Skype and you've complained about 'face to face ought to be person to person.' And when you found out that Roderich plays online, you gave him grief for 'living in a fantasy world.' And you have been magically relieved of your former intolerance, and it's because of _Canada._"

Gilbert bristled. "You say it like it's a bad thing."

Germany didn't have violent outbursts very often, not anymore, but once in a while, something would snap and he would say something a touch regrettable.

"Maybe it is!" He retorted. "Maybe it's upsetting and confusing that you're suddenly letting a near-stranger have such an influence in your life when your friends whom you've known forever have been trying to reach out to you. For God's sake, Gilbert, _I've_ been trying to reach out to you!"

He should have stopped there, really he should have. Had he stopped there, Gilbert might have seen the heart of the matter much sooner. But Germany just had to keep talking, his voice rising with frustration and confusion. "Maybe, Gilbert, it's _stupid_ to act like a schoolboy trying to impress his crush at your age!"

Gilbert was silent at that, wet his lips, and made to close the door, but Germany stopped him. "Gilbert. _Gilbert._ It was a figure of speech…"

"Let it go, West."

"I just…"

And then Germany got it. Germany has a rare gift (some would call it a deficiency, so rare it was), a gift for understanding things almost immediately after they should have been quite obvious, like having to hear the thunder to realize that lightning flashed. He's had several glorious incidents like this in the past— agreeing to be hospitalized after the pain of his last migraine caused him to vomit every meal and power snack he'd consumed that day, realizing that he was not well only after his former ally, Venecziano, explicitly detailed Gilbert's death should he ever set foot in Italy again after the Marzabatto massacre in World War II, conceding that he was just a little bit of an opera fan after reserving Bayreuth tickets 15 years in advance… you get the idea. He would have little epiphanies much later than necessary, and he had one at that moment.

"Oh. Oh no, Gilbert. You _do_ have a cr—"

Gilbert only reddened and grumbled, but he had a small smile.

"Gilbert, you're not going to… do anything about it, are you?"

Gilbert's smile faded, and he looked at his brother. "Why shouldn't I?"

Germany grasped his shoulders. "Listen to me: he's still a Nation, and a young one at that. You're…"

"Are you saying I'm not _good_ enough for him?"

"No! No, Gilbert, I'm just…"

"Because it sure as hell sounds like that's what you're trying to say here!"

"I'm saying that you have to be realistic, that you can't just…"

"Just because I'm not one of you anymore doesn't make me less, Ludwig!" Gilbert shoved his brother's hands away. "God, it's not a doomed romance! I like him, we're friends, and maybe I'll ask him out, and you cannot tell me what it is I can or cannot do because of what I am now!"

He began to close the door again, but Germany stopped him. "Liar."

"_Excuse _me?"

"You wouldn't _maybe_ ask him out."

Gilbert glowered at him before trying to close the door again, but Germany's hand caught the frame. "I just… Gilbert, you don't know him."

"I don't know him as well as you know Feliciano?" Gilbert replied coldly. "Oh, beg pardon. I suppose I should wait a few decades for him to rip my heart out then return the favor and hope and pray we get back to a shadow of what we were, all the while repressing and denying my own feelings and urges."

Germany flinched at that. Gilbert held his stare until the doorframe was released.

Germany slumped against the shut door, listening until he finally felt the urge to move.

Gilbert didn't join him for supper that evening, or coffee. He came down late, though, when Germany was sitting on the couch with the paper with his drink. Gilbert quietly sat down with him with a beer of his own.

"Hey," said Germany quietly. "I'm… an ass."

"Yep," was the answer. "That's how I know we're related."

He grinned at that. "Look, I just… I ought to…"

"Use your words, kid."

"Heh. Okay. I just… am worried that you're letting someone you haven't been friends with for very long have such an influence on you. And a little hurt. I've been trying to help you with all these advances, you know I have, because what if that helps me… not lose you?"

Gilbert was quiet at that. "Ludo."

"Hm?"

"If a smartphone is the death of me, you have my permission to laugh hysterically at my funeral."

Germany laughed at that. "Or Roombas. Roombas could do you in."

"Holy shit, death by Roomba! I'd be so cool at the pearly gates! 'Heya St. Peter!' 'Heya Herr Beilschmidt, what are you here for?' 'Death by Roomba.' 'Holy hell! Let's get you some beer!' I'd be the coolest kid on the block."

"Holy God…"

"Yeah! God'd be impressed, too! We'd go for drinks and shit…"

And that's how disputes are settled in the Beilschmidt household. For really and truly. There will first be beer consumed, plenty of it. Someone will acknowledge their transgression, then beer is had and Gilbert will make his brother laugh.

Then the other party acknowledges their own transgression.

"Ludo?"

"Hmm?"

"I _am_ acting rather green. And let me tell you, it feels _marvelous._"

A grin spread across his face and he settled back into the couch, nursing his beer. Germany looked over at him, still a touch skeptically. Gilbert turned back to face him, voice and expression firm.

"But Ludo. I do believe I was right in my summarization of your and Feli's relationship. I forgot to mention that the pair of you have come along nicely, but there's still too much left unsaid.

"You're still in love with him, aren't you?"

Sheepishly, Germany turned his face away. Gilbert persisted. "Why don't you just go ahead? What's there to lose?"

"Gilbert, you've got nothing to lose," he said quietly. "You've got a lifetime, now. A lifetime to do whatever the hell you want."

He turned to Gilbert again. "I envy you. We all envy you, in a way. You're the closest to human out of any of us. I have so much time, too much time. If I screw up with Feli one more time, I'll have to deal with that for so long. I can't afford to screw it up again, it's happened more than enough. I reached the breaking point long ago. One more screw-up, Gilbert. That's all it takes for me to lose him forever. It's better we're friends. It really is. I just have to…"

"'Learn better?'" Gilbert supplied sardonically. His tone softened. "I've told you. Nobody 'learns better.' Not anybody. As you can see," he smiled, "even I don't. And I'm supposed to be a good influence."

He stood, taking his empty glass. "Well. I'll be turning in. And, so you'll sleep easier, I don't plan on asking Canada out any time soon. He's just looking for a friend, and I'm happy with that. Oh, and before I go, fancy becoming a betting man?"

Germany looked up curiously. Gilbert began to walk backwards to the kitchen. "You're so convinced Feli doesn't care? You find out. If you're right, and it's not what he wants nor is he interested in you, I keep mum about my 'crush' on Canada, and everyone carries on as they have. However, should he be interested and love conquers all, you let me have my happiness, stand aside and let me ask Canada out. Deal?"

Germany paused, staring at his brother. Gilbert was smiling mischievously, but his eyes were steely. "What if I refuse?"

"Then I reserve the right to put charcoal in my toothpaste and go about in public with black teeth."

Germany laughed. If Gilbert was going to be ridiculous, he could play along. All he had to do was ask Feli for coffee during a time he knew he'd be busy. "Fine, fine. For your honor, I'll do it."

His brother grinned. "You've got three months. And I need to ask him about the encounter and get a story that matches up suitably with yours. You know what an honest kid he is."

He sauntered out, leaving is brother befuddled in his wake, calling over his shoulder "Sweet dreams. And don't be a chicken shit."

**For those of you who are wondering, this is the song that Alfred sings when he calls Bruce's name**

watch?v=8mOFay9Rhac

**Anddddddd….. OH! Here's the song that Matt sent Gil:**

watch?v=m_WRFJwGsbY


End file.
